


spin me round

by zxanthe



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Multi, characters and relationships will be added as more stuff is uploaded, enjoy, this is perfect if you're looking for a quick read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxanthe/pseuds/zxanthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of oneshots of the soul eater variety. most of these were originally posted on tumblr.</p><p> <i>latest: the marching band au</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in your dreams (soul/maka)

**Author's Note:**

> this is old and crappy but have it anyway

The blade slithers into her flesh and they both scream. He struggles fruitlessly against his shackles, because the broken flesh of his wrists is nothing, the blood running slowly down his hands is nothing, the pain in his body is nothing nothing nothing. He can feel every bit of what is being done to her, the hot iron against her flesh, melting it, scarring it, cooking it, through their bond, and all that matters is getting to her, saving her, but he _can’t_ , he can’t! He is utterly powerless, utterly helpless, weak and useless and stuck. “MAKAA!” he screams, but his voice cracks and he realizes he’s crying.

Slowly, almost lovingly the gray and black blade ( _his_ blade, Soul realizes with a jolt) cuts into the pale skin of her stomach. The soft wet sound of her flesh splitting is sickening, it’s all he can hear, it makes him yell and struggle all the more, and when she looks at him blood dribbles from her mouth and coats her chin and sweat and snot and tears smother everything else and her green eyes are rolling mad utterly desperate and she screams his name “SOUL” the sound warped and broken and wrong wrong wrong-

Something breaks inside him, a part that never should be broken, and suddenly the world is dark and fractured and madness bubbles up inside him, so thick and viscous and tremendous that it gushes out his mouth and ears and nose (but that’s okay because he doesn’t need to breathe anymore anyway). Somewhere far away someone is screaming and someone else is screaming too and when he looks at her she is a mess of red and slime and pale worms sprouting from her belly and he sees his colorless doppelganger standing there, its arm a scythe, coated in blood, and laughing-

He is wrapped in thick damp suffocation and he thrashes and yells and the shock of hitting the floor does nothing to awaken him from his terror. As fast as he can he stumbles upright out the door into the hall ignoring pain from stubbed toes and bumps and it is only by slamming hard into something upright and warm, throwing him back, that he reaches blindly and meets fingers. Slender fingers, fingers he can never not know, at once intimately familiar and utterly alien.

“Maka,” he says, and then she is in his arms, sobbing his name, clutching him so tightly he can’t breathe. He can feel her against him, her heart going a million miles an hour, her body warm and whole and completely unharmed. He hugs her to him, presses his lips to the top of her head, breathes her in, the most powerful sense of relief crashing down around him. The girl he loves is not dead, not dead, not dead. But as the relief dies he realizes something: they’re resonating, fast and deep, the rate so high that he can peer straight into the depths of her soul, hear its song, all jagged chords and sharp bursts of utter terror, and in the maelstrom of her thoughts- _oh shit oh fuck nonononoNO-_ he sees his nightmare playing over and over, feels the whole damn thing all over again, this time from _her_ perspective, and he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. This was his burden, his horror, and it was never his intention to share this with her, never never. He hurthis _meister_ , he hurt _Maka_ , and this is the ultimate betrayal, a knife in his chest cutting him to pieces with every beat of his heart.

“I-idiot!” Maka says tearfully, and smacks him in the chest, not hard. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?!”

“Do you think I want to…to tell you something like that?!”

“YES!” she says, and pushes him away. Involuntarily, his body begins to tremble all over again.

“Do you know,” Maka says, “how many _nights_ I stayed up worrying about…about…?”

He frowns. Staying up? But wouldn’t she have to be sleeping to eavesdrop on his nightmare?

“Not _that_ ,” she tells him. “This.” And then her lips are on his and his mind is suddenly as empty as a cloudless Nevada sky.

Her mouth is warm and soft and tastes of cherries.

“Damn, Tiny Tits,” he tells her when they break apart, because it’s all he can think to say. “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?”

“Shut up,” she says, and in the moonlight he can see that her face has turned that adorable shade of pink.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the silence.

“It’s alright. If anything, resonating in our sleep means we’re getting stronger.”

This time, he kisses her, and later, they fall asleep in a jumble of pajama-clad limbs on her mattress, because they’ve just unearthed something new and wonderful (and secretly, they’re both still a little scared).

Soul’s nightmare does not return.


	2. a matter of time (black star/tsubaki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally written for tsustar week 2014 on [tumblr](http://zxanthe.tumblr.com/post/89084862828/a-matter-of-time), prompt "only human"

She is sixteen and he is fourteen and they share a bedroom. At first, it was awkward, because there was only one room and two of them and they had only very recently met. But somehow along the course of their partnership the one big bed divided into two and Tsubaki drifted from the couch to the room in the apartment reserved for rest. Many times they would fall asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing, or wake panting and sweating from some nightmare and see the comforting silhouette of their partner curled atop their mattress. 

//

She is twenty-one and he is nineteen and they share a bed. It kind of happened unintentionally, when Black*Star, after a particularly nasty nightmare, crawled into her bed and hugged her tightly. From there it had escalated into touching and kissing and, well…all the things that couples do between the sheets. Neither was particularly bothered by the arrangement, and soon it became a regular occurrence. They never quite said  _I love you_ until they did. The transition from  _weapon and meister_ to  _husband and wife_ almost went completely unnoticed until Black*Star thought to buy a ring.

//

She is thirty-two and he is thirty and they don’t share the benefits that come with being a bushin. He’s still as energetic and sprightly as ever, but Tsubaki can’t help but notice the way her knees ache when she gets out of bed in the morning, that she can’t see quite so well, that her body is slowing down in subtle increments with every passing day. She doesn’t mention anything to Black*Star, but over the years he’s grown more perceptive and she thinks that she can see something bright and desperate burning behind his eyes when he looks at her.

//

She is fifty-six and he is fifty-four and they don’t share the degenerative effects of age. There are wrinkles around Tsubaki’s mouth, crinkling from the corners of her eyes. Her skin is starting to sag and she has gray streaks in her long dark hair. But Black*Star still looks young, incredibly so, and Tsubaki realizes that he is probably going to outlive her by a long, long time.

//

She is sixty-four and he is sixty-two when she tells him he should get a new weapon. As she expected, he protests violently, and so she waits patiently for him to talk himself out. Once he has she tells him, gently but firmly, that she simply  _can’t_ anymore. She’s neither fast enough nor strong enough and her blades have gone dull. Black*Star takes her wrinkled hands in his smooth ones and tells her  _I’ll stay with you no matter what_ , and Tsubaki smiles despite the tears in her eyes because she’s only human and there’s a limit to the number of years she can keep up with him, her fierce and ageless god.

//

She is eighty-nine and he is eighty-seven when he holds her for the last time (although he doesn’t know it yet). They’re sitting on a park bench beneath the stars and they’re not talking, just relaxing in each other’s company like all old couples do, despite the fact that only one of them looks their age. He doesn’t catch her last words because they’re whispered on the faintest breath. When he leans closer and she doesn’t reply the fact of her mortality hits him like a train, like a punch, like a fall to the ground. He shakes her and shouts her name (even though he knows there’s only one reason that she wouldn’t respond when he’s such a mess) but of course he gets no answer. He howls his grief to the night, then, because the beautiful sparkling stars in his sky have just gone out for good.

//

He watches them all grow old and die, eventually, as all humans are wont to do, until it’s only him and Lord Death. Sometimes they’ll sit together in the park in companionable quiet, and Kid will take off his mask because it’s honestly more comfortable that way. As the years slip by he grows more and more powerful, takes many weapons under his wing, fights many great battles both by himself and alongside the Shinigami, but sometimes when it’s late and he’s sitting bored in front of a terminal sipping vodka he’ll take her picture from wherever he happens to have hidden it and look at it for a few seconds before snapping the locket shut and going back to whatever he was doing, sadness and fondness mingling in a bittersweet funk that somehow leads to him either falling asleep where he sits or finishing off the bottle.


	3. the death sisters (kid/maka)

the death sisters, everyone calls them. From Brooklyn, with love. If looks could kill, half the school would be goners.

Dylan’s a little fascinated, but then again he’s always a little fascinated by anything with even the faintest connection to the strange and morbid. Maka tells him he’d best stay away, that they’re trouble. Dylan nods and smiles, but from the glances he continually shoots their way she can tell that they still exert a powerful pull over his mind.

(it’s not like she’s  _jealous_ of these blonde, buxom, badass newcomers, oh no. it’s concern for her friend that makes her follow him around, hissing warnings in his ears. they’ve known each other since birth, after all, have played together, laughed together, cried together. it’s only natural. only natural.)

when he first approaches them, he’s smiling and smooth, those strange yellow eyes half-lidded in what Maka calls his “creeper face.”  barely five words in and the taller one’s fist flies hard and fast into his jaw, knocking him flat on the polished linoleum.

“I told you so,” says Maka later, when they’re sitting on the wall, gazing out over the bay. Dylan rubs his bruised face. “Mmm.”

she glances at him. the sunset gives his face an orange cast, but his eyes have turned to something resembling molten gold and in them she can see

 

it’s hot. she can taste summer in the warm, sticky air. her heels make contact with the cooling concrete one after the other in an endless dance,  _thudthud_ , _thudthud_ , always a millisecond too late for synchronicity, for communication.

“they’re no good,” she says, but it comes out low and muted and unlike her normal tone at all.

“yeah,” says Dylan, and  _even in his voice_

“I know.”


	4. for power and glory (black star/tsubaki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [amazing au](http://gingerthesnap.tumblr.com>gingerthesnap</a>%20on%20tumblr%20came%20up%20with%20an%20<a%20href=) and i just had to write it. i can only hope that i did it the justice that it deserves. :)

**03**

_calm_ , she thinks, as she folds into a bow, naked and shivering. she keeps her eyes on the ground, even as she hears his footsteps descend from the dais, even when she feels his rough, callused hand scrape across her shoulders, feels his soul probe her own. her breathing is even, but inside her clenched fists, blood wells from the places where the nails pierce the skin.

“She’ll do,” he says, and it’s all she can do not to scream.

 

**01**

his breathing is ragged. she’s glad it’s dark, because she doesn’t have to see the tears slipping from his raw red eyes.

“Tsubaki,” he begins, and he has to stop because his voice is swallowed by a sob.

“Tsubaki,” he repeats, and now his voice is steadier. “Be strong.”

“Yes,” she says, and then they’re hugging each other tightly and through her own tears she’s whispering _it’ll be okay it’ll be okay it’ll be okay_ and she wants so desperately to believe it, to pretend that Masamune isn’t going to become the instrument of one of the most despicable men the world has known.

They hold each other for a long time, until the sun filters through the slats in their wooden cage and they come to take him away.

 

**04**

it’s impossible. She can’t just kill her brother. She can’t just feel his lifeblood, hot and wet and sticky, coat her blades, can’t just hear his awful gurgling screams and stay in weapon form and do _nothing_. Her body shakes but she doesn’t cry, because she can feel his hot ragged breath in her ear, whispering _be strong be strong be strong_.

 _Do as we say,_ her new meister replies to that, _and we won’t kill your father_.

She curls into an even tighter ball and ponders this impossible dilemma.

 

**06**

They’ve finished training for the day and they’re sitting by the water trough. Black*Star’s hair is sopping wet to match his shirt.

“Your brother killed an entire village, did you know that?”

It’s the first time he’s spoken to her in a normal voice. Tsubaki doesn’t look at him, but the news is like a punch to the gut.

“We have to kill him, for their sake if not ours.”

She chances a glance at him. The loud, arrogant, self-centered Black*Star, thinking about the safety of _others_?

He sits back and laces his fingers together behind his head. “Your choice.”

Tsubaki swallows. There’s no sound but the birds twittering in the trees, but inside her swords crash and clang against each other, threatening to drive her mad.

_he’s a monster now_

_he’ll always be a monster, an eater of human souls_

_he killed innocents_

_he consumes their souls_

_monster_

_monster_

_monster_

Somehow, Tsubaki doesn’t cry when she looks Black*Star full in the face.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

He smiles.

 

**02**

she

can’t

stop

it’s like

she’s going

to fall

apart, because she

_cannot believe_

(except that she can, she _can_ , she could hear it in his voice hear the fury hear the hate hear the _madness_ bubbling just beneath the surface. her brother always had a temper, a strong sense of justice)

that he would break free and

_kill innocents_

(and leave her behind to die)

the door of her lonely stone cell clangs open and a figure is there, silhouetted in the torchlight. a guard. Without a word he comes forward and grabs her arm, lifting her to her feet. Involuntarily, she cries out, because his gauntleted grip is harsh and she can feel her skin break and twist. “You’re coming with me,” he says, and she’s still crying when they leave the cell.

 

**08**

he swallows the soul and smacks his lips. Tsubaki shudders.

“You should stop doing that,” she tells her meister. “It’s wrong.”

“Why would it be wrong?” _He_ sounds genuinely curious. “The strong eat the weak. That’s the way it works.”

“But they’re people! With lives and dreams and fears, just like you!”

“The mighty Black*Star fears nothing,” he says dismissively. “Weak humans do, though. That’s why we’ve got to eat them. They’ll be happier as a part of _this_.”

Tsubaki lets her disgust show on her face.

“You act like you’re so high and mighty,” Black*Star says scornfully. “I know what the Nakatsukasa Clan does. Selling yourselves to whoever happens to have enough money, now that’s downright _shameful_. But human souls pave the way to might and glory.”

“Power doesn’t necessarily equal might or glory,” Tsubaki says.

“Oh, really? What do you know that we don’t?”

“Compassion, for one.”

He mulls it over. “Compassion is for fools,” he says.

“Compassion is for _humans_.”

“So you’re saying I’m not human?”

“Yes!”

He grins, revealing sharp shark’s teeth, star-pupiled eyes crinkling. “You’re right, Nakatsukasa. I’m not human at all!”

 

**05**

his touch is _wrong_.

She has to swallow down her revulsion and concentrate on matching her wavelength to his, even though its very feel makes her want to vomit. To distract herself she thinks about her home in the mountains, thinks about her father, thinks about her brother, who

_burst into a school and killed the children, all the children_

always asked her what _she_ wanted to play, but (and she regrets it now) she would always stick with something that she knew he liked to do.

His arm moves, quicker than a normal human’s she can’t help but think, and her blade slams against the opponent’s sword.

At first, he couldn’t hold her, because every time he tried to pick her up she would burn his fingers, even when wearing gloves. This irritated him greatly and so of course he had her whipped for her insolence. Two days later, back oozing and burning, she’d transformed and with all her might tried to match her wavelength to his. When he picked her up his hands held on, and his manical cackles had filled the air.

Now they practice like this every day, with each of her five incarnations. She no longer gives him any trouble (or says anything at all) because the whip and worse things keep her in line.

 

**07**

“I was going to have a brother,” Black*Star tells her. “But he died when he was born.”

Tsubaki wonders how different her life would be if that had happened to Masamune, but she immediately banishes the thought. “I’m sorry,” she says instead, and Black*Star snorts. “I’m not. There’s only room for one prince in this family.”

She’s in ninja sword mode right now. He flashes across the clearing, driving her point into the dry scratchy skin of the straw dummies.

“Do you ever think about the souls you eat?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. She cringes, expecting him to stop, fling her away, make her revert to human form so he can make her hurt, but he does none of those things. He just makes a small noise in the back of his throat as he slashes. “Sometimes,” he says.

She plunges on. “Don’t you regret it?”

She can feel a bolt of anger flash through his soul, and this terrifies her. Suddenly their wavelengths are out of sync and Black*Star drops her, palm singed by the contact. Before she hits the ground, she’s human again, legs tangling in her kimono as she skids in the dirt. She curls into a ball, bracing herself for the kicking she knows is coming.

For endless moments, she waits. _Do it!_ she wants to scream.

When he touches her shoulder, she gasps and flinches. She opens her eyes to see him looking away from her, hand extended as if to help her up.

“Sorry,” he tells her. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

She can’t believe what she’s seeing. Hesitantly, she takes the offered arm and lets him help her to her feet.

“I just figure,” he tells her, the words halting, abrupt, “that if we’re going to fight together we might as well be friends.”

 _Friends_.

She is thrown off by his proposition, her mind gone blank. For a long time she can only stare at him and then anger begins to cloud her mind, hot and heady. “You had me whipped!” Her nails dig bloody crescents into her palms. “You enslaved my brother! _You_ caused him to go mad, _you_ tore my family apart, _you_ destroyed my home and everything I’ve ever held dear and _you want to be my friend?!_ ” Her voice has risen to a scream and she stares at him, muscles tense, body shaking. “I am the daughter of the Nakatsukasa Clan, a _person_ , not a _tool_ to be abused and discarded at your whim!”

He raises a hand, as if to hit her. _Let him_ , Tsubaki thinks savagely. _That will mean I’m right._

His arm hangs quivering in the air for a few long moments, but eventually it lowers. For a long time they stare at each other. Cold fury burns behind his eyes, and Tsubaki has to swallow her fear and meet it blow for blow, until she sucks in a sharp breath and admits defeat, her eyes dropping to the ground. She trembles slightly in dreadful anticipation of the scourging almost certainly in store. But when she looks up, she sees him walking away, back towards the palace instead of shouting for guards to tie her up and show her what it means to anger the great Prince Black*Star.

 

**10**

“You _what_?”

White*Star’s voice is calm, but Tsubaki can hear the barely-controlled anger just beneath the surface, see it in the way the veins on his arms and forehead suddenly stand out. She swallows. This was a bad idea, but there was no making Black*Star see reason.

“I said I don’t fucking want to be a part of this thing anymore. It’s _wrong_ , the way you eat the souls of humans. That’s not what power’s supposed to be.”

White*Star rises fluidly, sword in hand. “And to prove that, you _let Sanjuro Nakatsukasa go free?!_ ”

Tsubaki doesn’t need Black*Star’s whispered command. She’s already in his hands, blades sharp and ready.

“It’s _her_ , isn’t it,” says White*Star, a mocking edge creeping into his voice. “The bitch filled your soft, weak head with lies.”

“ _Tsubaki_ ,” says Black*Star, his voice ominously low, “is a _person_ , not a _bitch_.” And with a wild yell he launches himself at his father, and for Tsubaki the next few minutes are a furious blur of blood and steel and grunts. It’s all she can do to keep up with White*Star’s furious, unpredictable attacks, all she can do to fend off his sword, which hurts her (how can it do something like that?) every time they clash. She can sense Black*Star’s exhaustion, feel his attacks getting wilder and sloppier. His father is the better warrior, she can see it clearly now, and it’s only a matter of time

she’s clattering to the ground and White*Star’s sword is arcing towards him and she knows what’s going to happen so she

transforms and can’t help but gasp because

the metal’s so _cold_ in her belly.

“TSUBAKI!” he cries and his voice is red and raw. _I’m fine_ , she wants to tell him, but she knows that would be a lie.

“ _I’LL KILL YOU!_ ” he screams at his father, and so he does, a brutal punch of pure soul wavelength straight to the heart.

 

**09**

she supposes that she feels some affection and loyalty towards her wild-haired meister. He’s a hard worker and very dedicated and somehow he treats her more gently now. Maybe it’s because they’ve been inside each other’s souls and Tsubaki has seen that he’s not _bad_ , not yet.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him when they’re lying on their backs together under the cherry tree.

“For what?”

“My harsh words.”

“Nah, don’t be. I needed a slap in the face.”

“Literal or metaphorical?”

“Both.”

“I agree,” she says, and they look at each other and smile.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, though,” he says, grin fading. He takes her hand. “Can you forgive me?”

She takes a deep breath and swallows and thinks of her brother’s heart tearing itself to pieces on her blade. But then she remembers his smiles and awkward kindness and conversation, his impulsiveness and recklessness and the sheer _energy_ that makes him up and she realizes that she’d forgiven him a long time ago, and so she tells him so.


	5. headlights (soul/maka)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on [ this post ](http://zxanthe.tumblr.com/post/111498194788/grigori-girl-starry-ness-otpdisaster-person-b) on tumblr

It’s so cold. The wind rips the scarf from his face, blasts him with its numbing breath and effectively freezes him to the seat. His motorcycle snarls beneath him, seemingly as eager to escape the outdoors as he is. The single bright headlight cuts a straight path through the darkness, lighting the way. Soul grits his teeth and hunches lower over the handlebars. The cold front wasn’t supposed to blow in until the early morning hours, according to the news. He snorts derisively. This is the last time he trusts the weatherman.

It had been a long day at the office. He’d had to stay late because some assholes had decided it would be a wonderful idea to hack the bank’s computers. One million dollars had been stolen, and Soul and the rest of the tech department had been glued to their chairs all day trying to patch things up. Soul’s eyes burn with tiredness. It’s eight o’clock at night. Line after line of computer code still swims before his eyes. More than anything, Soul is looking forward to shedding his clothes and collapsing into the warm softness of his bed. His lids droop even further just imagining-

his eyes are blown wide and the lights, they’re dazzling, like twin suns. they fill up his brain, push out every thought until there’s nothing but white white white, and it’s strange because the moment before cold metal meets warm flesh he feels so intangible, like it’ll just pass right through him, like

(there’s a bend in the road here, very sharp. he can never see round it because there’s a wall of trees blocking the way. maka always grips him tight and squeals _be careful!_ but he laughs at her because it’s not like they’re gonna die or anything)

the moment of impact is hardly registered. there’s perhaps a muffled crunch and then suddenly soul’s flying, body twisting in cold cold blackness, weightless. but he is not a bird and he falls, hitting the hard earth with bruising force. somehow he’s on his back. violent afterglows pulse across his vision. he breathes in, or tries to. it hurts to breathe. slowly, gingerly, he lifts his left arm, since he can’t feel his right. he probes his chest. he’s wet. soaked. he licks his lips. they taste like copper.

Soul swallows.

This wasn’t how he imagined it. He thought dying was going to be slightly more spectacular, at least, than a startled inhalation and a thump. The corners of his mouth lift at the sheer _stupidity_ of it all. Maka wouldn’t be very happy. He can just see her now, shaking her head, tut-tutting. _Soul, you should know better. If you’d just been paying attention, none of this would have happened. What’ll I do with you, you silly shark man?_

He laughs, but it hurts to laugh. He can’t stop, though, and suddenly he’s coughing. Something warm and wet flies from between his lips.

(not much longer)

His working hand gropes in his pocket, closes around something small, cold. His phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Maka.”

“You missed our date. What happened?”

“Some idiots decided to hack the bank. One million, all gone. Kid’s merciless. I couldn’t get away till now.”

“Ouch. You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m still alive, at any rate.”

Maka laughs, light and tinkling. Soul’s eyes slide shut.

“Well, tell you what. I’ll go over to your place and make you something. Sound good?” she asks.

“S’okay. I’m not hungry.”

“What are you talking about? You’re always hungry.”

“Mmm. Just stay at home, kay? I don’t wanna keep you waiting.”

“Oh, you’re still at the office? I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

“You’re silly.”

He smiles, softly. “Hey, Maka?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this. So, uh, lemme just put it out there: I love you. I love you so much.”

“Aww, Soul. I love you too. Hurry home, okay? You sound really out of it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll be there in a sec. See ya.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead. Soul opens his eyes. The stars wheel above, smeared in afterglow, and the longer he looks the brighter they get, until the night sky is white and blinding like headlights and Soul is swallowed up.


	6. good hair day (soul/maka)

There is nothing in the world she likes better than quiet evenings on the couch and Soul’s fingers in her hair. He becomes so animated, the cool-guy façade dissolving into narrowed eyes and soft grunts and the most  _hilarious_ facial expressions as he tries to coax the ponytail into looping around her ashy-blonde locks and staying where he put it. 

“How the  _fuck_ ,” Soul explodes one evening when her hair is particularly tangled, “do chicks stand having so much  _hair_?!”

Maka begins to run her own fingers through it, deftly combing out the knots. “How do guys stand walking around half-naked all the time?”

“Because it’s comfortable!”

“Exactly. Put a shirt on, by the way.”

He huffs and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like  _stupid_ before getting up and ambling towards his room.

He gets better at it, though, as time goes by. Soon noises of frustration are replaced by companionable silence, and even a word or two.

That’s when she decides he’s ready for braids.

Maka gets to laugh herself silly all over again as Soul’s (supposedly deft) fingers stumble drunkenly through the weaving of her tresses. Once again his eyes narrow and he mutters in concentration and his face contorts itself into expressions that she can’t help but giggle at.

Death, he’s so  ~~adorable~~  funny when he does her hair.

She teaches him all kinds of things, from French braiding to the art of using a curling iron (because freshly-painted nails and hair just don’t mix). One day, Maka looks in the mirror and thinks that her weapon is just getting too damn good at this. He can do her hair better than she can herself. That realization is what leads her to asking him, more and more often, to style her hair, whether it is for a grand party or a small outing with Tsubaki or just an ordinary day at school.

“Damn, pigtails,” he tells her one day. “I don’t know whether to be ashamed or proud.”

“The latter, I think,” she sighs, because his fingers are gently combing through her loosened hair and it feels  _incredible_. “I know  _I’m_  proud of you.”

“Tch,” Soul huffs, but when she opens her eyes just the littlest bit, there’s that small soft smile she loves dusting her weapon’s lips.


	7. falling, like leaves (soul & wes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally for Evans Brothers Week, day 1, prompt “unexpected visit”. based on whos-that-foxi-lady's lovely [au](http://whos-that-foxi-lady.tumblr.com/tagged/undercover-agents-au), which i can’t stop thinking about because evans bros and undercover agents make a beautiful couple :)

There’s a cigar in his mouth. He always has a cigar in his mouth. Soul blinks and then smiles because really, they’re literal undercover agents and all but for fuck’s sake, a _cigar?_ Makes them look like they’re on some cheap noir film and he tells Wes so in a dry (if fond) deadpan.

The elder Evans simply rolls his eyes and continues puffing, settling down on the bench beside his brother. It’s fall in New York City, and the leaves on the trees have turned varying shades of orange and red and brown, littering the ground, clinging to the trees in a last desperate stand before winter really digs in its claws. There’s a breeze blowing too, just strong enough to cut like knives and make everyone feel a little on edge. Soul dips his chin and nestles his face a little deeper into his scarf. Everything’s so _vivid_ today, bright and crisp and clear; it’s all a little disconcerting. He glances at his brother. Wes’s hair is neat as usual, tamed in a way Soul never could quite manage, clean-shaven and impeccably dressed in a tan trench coat and polished dress shoes. Wes notices his stare and smiles in that quiet way he has. “Something on your mind, kid?”

Soul sighs, stretching out on the bench with his arms behind his head. “Nah. Just that stupid cigar, s’all. It stinks.”

“Don’t hate, this thing exudes class and makes me feel _exceedingly clever.”_

“You look like a pretentious douchenozzle is what.”

Wes tries to suppress his laughter and fails. _“Douchenozzle._ How do you come up with these? We’re s’posed to be professionals.”

Soul grins. “I’ve been around.”

“I’ll say.”

Silence falls. Soul can hear the wind in the trees, hear the leaves rattle. The smile slips off his face. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. What gives?”

Wes shrugs. “Oh, you know,” he says lightly. “Things happen.”

“Yeah, yeah. Was the contact not there or something?”

Wes taps the end of his cigar. Ash falls out, fluttering to the ground below. “You could say that.”

Soul shoots his brother a look. “What happened?”

Wes smiles. It’s one of those expressions that looks like it’s going to dissolve into tears at any moment, and sure enough, there’s a telltale glitter in Wes’s eyes. Soul straightens. “Woah, shit, bro, what the fuck, why are you…”

But Soul’s sentence trails off, because a flower has bloomed on Wes’s coat, bright and crimson and growing much too fast for Soul’s liking. There’s a hole, a yawning black pinprick that contains any number of universes, in the center of the stain, right over where his brother’s heart should be.

Soul’s eyes widen. He reaches forward but his hands won’t work and so all he can do is watch as his brother bleeds to death on the bench in front of him.

“Goddammit, I’m sorry,” Wes says, and his voice cracks and his eyes close and tears slip down his cheeks one by one. “I’ve left you all alone.”

Soul sits up in bed with a gasp, his heart pounding and a tightness in his throat. Panting, he stares blankly ahead, his brother’s face etched in his brain. The room is dark and dim, lit only by stripes of moonlight seeping through the blinds. Soul curls into a ball, his head on his knees.

If he’s crying, it’s impossible to tell.


	8. untitled college au (soul/maka)

The sky simmers blue-hot and the world warps and twists and somehow the scene strikes Maka as almost menacing, this summer day so bright and burning it could almost be considered an oven, minus the confining metal walls. She draws a hand across her forehead and quickens her step. The bookstore is only just across the street; perhaps she’ll hole up there for a little while to take refuge from the heat. Besides, she’d been wanting to buy a great big stack of novels anyhow. Her purse hangs heavy at her hip. 

She opens the door and immediately a wave of wonderfully cold, book-scented air envelops her. She can’t help the way her eyes close and her lips curve upwards, because coming to the bookstore is like coming home. For a moment, she stands in the doorway, scoping out the shiny new bestsellers, before delving into the depths of the store, where most of the books reside.

She browses indeterminately, picking out biographies and fantasies and anything in between until her feet take her to the poetry aisle. There’s already someone there. A hipster-looking guy, tall and lanky, with the most obnoxious glasses she’s ever seen in her life. He gives her a disinterested glance as she approaches but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge her.

Maka settles into a crouch and begins perusing the titles on the lower shelves, running her fingers over the books. She doesn’t know the first thing about poetry, really, but now is as good a time as any to start getting familiar with it. She’s always meant to read some, but where to begin? There’s so many poets, from so many different times and places. Maka huffs and stands, her hands on her hips. She eyeballs the shelves and decides to pick one at random. A violently red book on the top shelf catches her eye. She smiles in satisfaction. It’s not too thick, not too thin. Perfect. She approaches the shelves and stands on her tiptoes, but to no avail; at five foot four, no amount of reaching will get her anywhere near where she wants to go. With a sigh, she turns towards the stranger. “Could you get that book for me?” she asks, pointing.

His eyes flick to hers, looking vaguely annoyed behind the glasses. “Which one?” he asks. His voice is surprisingly low and raspy for such a skinny guy. She gestures again. “The red one.”

He ambles towards her, squinting. _His hair is white,_ she notices abruptly. Probably dyed. _Hipsters._ She barely suppresses a roll of her eyes.

“Ah? Oh… _that_ one?”

“Yep.”

He reaches upward, long knobby fingers closing around the book. “If you’re sure,” he says, and is that an undercurrent of…scorn in his voice? It’s _something,_ that’s for sure, and she frowns as she takes in his expression, the way he almost seems to be looking down his nose at her all of a sudden, like she’s something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

Maka narrows her eyes. “Is there a problem?”

The stranger shrugs. “Nope.”

“Then can I have my book, please?”

Wordlessly, he holds it out to her, and now there’s no mistaking it, that’s _derision_ right there lurking in his eyes, in his posture, in the set to his mouth. Maka snatches her book from him and glares. “Thank you very much,” she says coolly, and then turns around, all too willing to leave the stupid hipster douche to his own devices.

Behind her, he scoffs. Within that single exhalation is contained a world of scorn and a big steaming pile of pretentious bullshit. Then he mutters something under his breath. Maka stops in her tracks and then turns around. “Did you say something?”

“Nope,” he says easily, not even bothering to turn around.

“Liar.”

At that, he throws a baleful glance over his shoulder before turning back to the shelves. “Whatever. Now go away, I’m trying to read.”

Maka frowns. “What’s your _problem?”_ she asks, irritation blooming hot and heady beneath her skin.

“I could ask you the same thing, Tiny Tits.”

“ _What did you just call me?”_

“Shit, woah, _hey,”_ he says, because her books are on the floor and her hand is fisted in his shirt and she’s glaring up at him, deliberately invading his personal bubble. “Let _go_ of me, woman!” he hisses.

“ _Tiny Tits,”_ she seethes, “is _not_ something you say to a person you just met. Got it, old man?”

He looks visibly affronted, but despite the flush in his cheeks he backs off. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he mumbles, and, satisfied, Maka lets go of his shirt. She turns around and gathers up her books and for a second time, prepares to leave, and would have if not for the two words he mutters under his breath to her retreating back: _“Fucking philistine.”_

The insult is so incredibly pretentious, so incredibly judgmental and ignorant and _stupid_ that it sets her off. “Just shut up already!” Maka hisses, and without another word shoves him backwards as hard as she can. He makes a noise like a bird being stepped on and stumbles back right into a shelf, arms pinwheeling wildly.

It’s like the world has slowed down to half its normal speed. Maka can only watch in abject horror as the shelf full of books topples. The aisles are narrow, and so it knocks into the one behind it, and the next one, and the next one, creating an awful domino effect of falling bookcases. From farther away in the store, someone screams. Maka’s breath catches and she hopes with all her might the person wasn’t buried. When the last _thud_ fades away and the store settles into the loudest silence she’d ever heard, Maka rounds on her antagonist, sprawled on his back amidst volumes of classic poetry. “ _This is all your fault!”_ she hisses.

He splutters, sitting up. His beanie has slipped off his head and his glasses are crooked, she notes with satisfaction. “ _My_ fault?! _You’re_ the one who-“

“What,” a new voice interrupts, “the _hell_ happened here?”

As one, Maka and Hipster Douche turn towards the new voice. It’s a woman, with short pink hair and an absolutely _livid_ expression on her dainty features. “You know what?” she hisses. “I don’t care. I do not care. In fact, I want you both _out!”_

She shrieks the last word, brandishing her fists, and Maka and Hipster Douche don’t need telling twice. They bolt as fast as they can, the woman hot on their heels. Maka yelps as she feels a book slam into her back. “ _OUT!”_ screeches the woman. “ _And don’t come back!”_

The door slams shut behind them, and Maka finds herself once more beneath the baking summer sun. Without a word, she turns on her heel and strides as fast as she can away from the stranger. It’s only when she gets home that she allows herself to cry.

 

* * *

 

They meet again a few days later, quite by accident. Maka is running late to class, and she’s got a coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other and is most definitely not looking where she’s going. So she’s startled when she collides directly into him, startled enough that her coffee flies from her cup to his face, startled enough that her books go flying everywhere and she trips over her own feet and falls to the ground. _“Shit,”_ she hisses _,_ “crap crap crap I’m sorry – oh. It’s you.”

For a few long moments, they stare at each other: Hipster Douche’s eyes are wide and he’s dripping in pumpkin spice mocha latte. Maka fights down the urge to laugh (meanly) as she gets to her feet and sets about gathering her things, determinedly not looking at him.

“…I guess I deserved that.”

She freezes. Slowly, her eyes travel upwards. Hipster Douche is red in the face, one hand on the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry about the other day,” he mumbles. “I just…ugh, I can’t believe you’d want to buy a book by _Justin Law!”_

“Who’s Justin Law?” Maka asks, nonplussed.

Hipster Douche looks at her blankly. “You don’t…oh, damn…uh…”

“Well?”

“Well, he’s…damn, he’s basically…I mean, calling him a poet is _way_ better than what his writing actually is,” he says. “Have you read his stuff? Anyone who likes it is either crazy or stupid or probably both.”

Maka’s mouth twists downward. “I think he’s pretty good, actually,” she says icily, and then shoulders her way past him. She doesn’t have _time_ for his bullshit right now.

“Nngh, _fuck,_ no, I, wait, I’m trying to _apologize,_ dammit!” he says, and grabs her shoulder, turning her to face him. “Look, I may have come off like a real dick in the store and I’m sorry, okay? And I’m even sorrier I got you banned; I mean I see you around there a lot and you always look so happy…” His face turns an even brighter shade of red. “Just, uh…can you forgive me?”

Maka sighs tiredly. “I’ll think about it, okay? Now can I go to class?”

Without waiting for his reply, she turns around and continues on her way. Now she’s _really_ late. She hopes that this is the last time she sees his stupid face.

 

* * *

 

The third time they meet, Maka is in the library, a textbook in front of her and headphones in her ears. As a result, she doesn’t hear it when he approaches her, and it’s only the unceremonious dumping of a multitude of books on top of her reading material that prompts her to look up, prepared to give whoever interrupted her study time one hell of a verbal beatdown. But the words die on her lips as she finds herself staring into the smirking visage of none other than Hipster Douche himself. “What are you _doing,”_ she asks flatly instead, pausing her music and glaring.

Hipster Douche slides into the seat across from her. “Broadening your horizons.”

“Are you coming on to me?”

“What?! _No,”_ he splutters, his face turning bright red. Maka smirks, and his head slides down his arms to unceremoniously rest on the table. “I just, you don’t seem the type who reads poetry on a regular basis,” he mumbles against the surface.

“What makes you say that?”

He actually perches his glasses on the top of his dyed white hair to fix you with a look. “Dunno, maybe it’s the hair,” he says sardonically.

“What’s wrong with my hair?!” Maka says, tugging at her pigtails.

“You seem to wear them unironically.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no…you know what, forget it.”

“Gladly.”

“ _Anyway,”_ says Hipster Douche, sitting up, “I brought you these. Poetry. The good stuff. Classic and contemporary. I think you’ll like these way more than that Justin Law crap.”

Maka hums, picking one up at random and sifting through it. “Why are you doing this?”

Hipster Douche’s shoulders lift. “Because I’m still sorry, I guess. And maybe because I’m beginning to realize that I’ve kind of turned into a pretentious douchebag.” He takes off the glasses. “Don’t even need these, anyway.”

Maka rolls her eyes and presses her lips together to suppress a reluctant smile. “Yeah, okay, whatever,” she says. “I’ll check them out.”

He actually grins at that. “Cool,” he says, and stands.

“By the way, do you have a name? I can’t go around calling you ‘Hipster Douche’ forever.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’ll let that one slide,” he grumbles. “I’m Soul.”

“Maka,” she says.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you round, Maka,” he says, and gives her a little wave before disappearing amongst the shelves.

“Yeah,” Maka murmurs. “See you.”

Her eyes stray to the pile of poetry books he left her. After a few moments, she picks up a volume, leans back in her chair, and begins to read.


	9. piano keys (soul/maka)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something i had sitting in my drafts for forever basically

The piano player has messy white hair and sleepy red eyes and the barest hint of a sharp ivory tooth poking out from beneath his upper lip. Maybe that’s why her eyes keep sticking to him, because she’s never seen anyone quite like him in her life. She’s fascinated and frustrated and perhaps a little turned on, because the way his lean shoulders move beneath that pinstriped suit makes her mouth water.

It’s then that she realizes that she’s just been stood up, because it’s been half an hour and her date hasn’t shown up yet.

Her fist clenches on the table, because she had actually been looking forward to this day since the beginning of the week. A nice dinner at a fancy restaurant with a cute coworker was the shining daydream that took her through the suffocating monotony of her job at the office, but instead it’s turned out to be just one more shitty day in a long line of shitty days in her shitty life, and she’s not sure she can take it anymore. With a heavy sigh she stirs her drink, watching the rapidly melting ice cubes clink together softly.

She never liked jazz much, anyway.

She’s pulled from her reverie by the sudden absence of music in the room and realizes with a start that the band has stopped playing. She glances towards the stage. The piano player is nowhere in sight, although his buddies are still putting up their instruments.

Once upon a time, she dreamed of being great, of making a difference in the world. When she got hired by Gorgon and Gorgon, LLC., she’d thought it was a dream come true. The name of Maka Albarn became widely-known throughout the company as she’d risen rapidly through the ranks…risen, that is, until she’d brought her father to a company gala. After a series of mishaps involving too much alcohol and one of the CEOs, Madison, getting her dress torn in exactly the wrong place (the memory still makes her break down in tears), she’d been shunted off to the side and put in charge of a bunch of sniveling idiots who couldn’t get a job done to save their lives.

She tells the piano player all this once she’s drained a glass or three. She’s a little tipsy and a little teary and she really needs someone to talk to right now, so somehow or another she finds him, leaning against the wall in a shady corner, a white-haired beacon in the haze of glittering party dresses and cigarette smoke.

“It always happens like this,” she finishes with a sniff. “Stood up…shrugged off like an old coat…”

The piano player watches her with impassive red eyes and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks her.

She sighs. “Because I’m drunk and pissed off and maybe a bit depressed.”

“I’m no psychologist, lady.”

“Yeah…I know.” Abruptly, a blush creeps into her cheeks, because _holy fuck_ she just told a _complete stranger_ about the things lurking in the shadowy murk of her heart’s secret places, things that, until this moment, she hadn’t even been able to admit to herself at all.

“I…I think I’ll go now,” she says weakly, and wipes away some moisture in her eyes. She swallows and lifts up her head and totters away in her sky-high heels, but before she’s completely lost in the crowd, she turns around. Her eyes meet his. “I really liked your playing,” she tells him. “I’d never really heard that style before.”

As she flees into the crowd, she realizes that she forgot to ask his name.


	10. marching band au (soul/maka)

“What?”

Maka’s lips curve and now she’s _definitely_ smiling, a soft, warm, slightly wondering thing, but she doesn’t say anything. He begins to feel a little self-conscious. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” he asks suspiciously, and Maka blinks, color staining her cheeks as she takes a step backwards, disentangling herself from his embrace.

“ _Nothing,”_ she says to the ground.

He tilts his head, one hand lifting to his still-tingling lips. “Hah? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Maka says, shaking her head, her eyes still stubbornly refusing to meet his.

“Then…uh, what the hell’s going on?”

Maka inhales deeply through her nose, eyes squeezing shut. It’s almost as if she’s steeling herself.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, eyes still closed. “But…oh my God, this is going to sound so _stupid…”_

He tilts his head, utterly baffled.

“ _You look adorable when you blush,”_ she whispers.

He blinks.

“Drummers don’t _blush,”_ he blurts, because it’s all he can think to say. Both hands reach up to cover his cheeks, even as heat rushes to them and pools bright and shining beneath his palms. His head tilts downward, and as if to make the situation even more painful, his sunglasses fall from the top of his head to the tip of his nose.

 _So. Uncool._ Members of the drum line are not supposed to act like this, dammit! “Don’t look at me,” he grumbles, sliding his hands farther up his face to his hairline.

Maka’s attempt to stifle her laugh is unsuccessful.

“Ah, shut up,” he says, voice muffled by his palms. A few moments later, her hands close around his wrists and gently tug his hands from his face.

“I like it,” she says softly, and he opens his eyes. Her face is close, green eyes shining deep and dark like the sea. She plucks his sunglasses from his nose and puts them on her own head.

“You drummers are so obsessed with being _cool,”_ she mumbles as her mouth meets his. “Y’need to _light’n up.”_

He grins and nips her bottom lip, relishing her soft gasp of surprise. “This coming from the notoriously _uptight_ trombone section leader herself.”

“Shut up, drummer boy. All you do is hit things.”

“Mmm…that’s not very nice…”

He traces a line of kisses from her mouth to the side of her neck, hands sliding from her shoulders to her waist to her hips. His teeth graze her neck. She shivers, head tilting back, her weight shifting as she presses up against the wall. Her hands comb through his hair and then one hand gently cups his chin and lifts it, guiding his lips to hers. He grins into the kiss.

“ _Shh,”_ she hisses, but it lacks venom.

Slowly, his hands creep up her body to cautiously cup the small breasts hidden beneath her bibbers. He braces, waiting for her to gasp and pull away and maybe hit him with a hardcover. But she does none of those things, instead kisses him _harder,_ and he shivers because-

“What the _fuck?!”_

The two of them spring apart as if burned. There, silhouetted by the streetlamp, is none other than Blake,Soul’s fellow drummer. He’s still in his uniform, bright turquoise hair sticking up every which way. For a few dumbstruck, horrified moments they stare at each other, Blake’s wide eyes darting between Soul and Maka.

“ _Run,”_ Soul hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

Maka doesn’t need telling twice. Her footsteps pound away towards the entrance on the other side of the band hall. Blake appears to be lost for words, something that’s never happened before in the course of their friendship. His mouth opens and closes, his eyes wide and angry and fixed on Soul’s. He swallows.

“YOU _TRAITOR!”_ Blake shouts suddenly, and he jumps. “SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! YOU’VE BROUGHT SHAME UPON US ALL!”

His hand darts out and closes around Soul’s ear before he can react. “We’re going to see Kid,” he hisses, yanking Soul downward. “This is unbelievable. I thought we were solid. You _betrayed us._ What part of _trombone equals sworn enemy_ do you not understand?!”

“The _sworn enemy_ part,” Soul grumbles, but only to himself. He yelps as Blake tugs his ear, pulling him around the building and towards impending doom.


End file.
